Seabrine and Saltwater
by GlowingPatchwork
Summary: Sometimes, in the fleeting time it takes for a butterfly to escape a rainstorm, she remembers him. [Cliff x Claire]


Fireflies only glow at night.

Whether this refers to the literal insects, that flit about freely whenever the slithering twilight seeps into the frosty winter air.

Whether it may only be a metaphor, sent to respect those that spend each night bolt upright in bed, unable to catch a wink of sleep to save their withering lives. They understand that they do have somewhere to arrive at, when the drowsy sun hoists itself up, glowing softly in shades of delicate amber and peach; judgmental school, vexing work, or even simply checking a mundane task off a checklist of other mundane tasks. There was always something to do.

Most creatures aren't able to hold grudges.

Yes, cicadas have memories, and a peppy little Labrador may well be able to recall the time when it was slapped repeatedly by a seething owner, but that doesn't mean furiosity or complaint sparks inside their tiny yet fiery hearts. The same hearts that thump as quietly as the sweet little pitter-patter of a child's elated feet; no. They simply have the wit to avoid the things that harm them, and associate objects with certain events or meanings. Certain warnings. But why couldn't humans be similar?

"I have measured out my entire life in coffee spoons, and have come to the conclusion that all life fades." It was one of Claire's favourite quotes.

Down, down, down, into the softly encasing arms protruding from the inky noir, that clutches her tightly, desperately, as she perches silently before the glowing monitor. She is prone to taking each comical comment or humorous observation in with a ghost of a smile flickering on her lips. Her honey-blonde locks droop lifelessly about her cream yet gaunt face. They brush beside the pale freckles that dust her sun-dyed cheeks, because they have nothing left to do.

She remembers him, sometimes; when the wind possesses a mild chill, and the rural air is just crisp enough to accentuate the scent of dewdrops, glimmering and alive as an intricately weaving spider. She remembers him at the feel of a warm beverage, flush against her frigid fingers as she dispells petite puffs of icy smoke high into the tumbling air. She pictures his smile as she casts her eyes briefly up to the sky that casts bright lightning stars, that collapse violently all around her. She sees him in her companion Ann, who has also been affected by his departure; her tan flooded out from her pastel-pink cheeks and her bright eyes visibly dimmed. She never welcomes customers in quite like she used to, with vigour and a charming eagerness. She sits and numbs it out and feels it ache just as Claire does.

And God, how Claire misses him. She misses him atop Mother's Hill, where the persuasive wind envelops and roughly shoves her around the rocky pewter cliffs. The breeze injects itself into her winding veins, with a force that just about resurrects that freezing yet burning sensation of pain and nostalgia. It blazes up her cold heart with the piercing ache of a faint recollection. How pathetically poetic it seems, to be thinking fondly of his mild stutter, awkward glances and eventual tender embraces upon such a dramatic backdrop, that will slowly crumble into the hissing, foaming sea, along with her and anyone else.

"In the end, we'll always return to the sea." Yet another quote she favoured.

Her mind whirls, random, psychedelic colours flashing vividly behind her fading cerulean eyes, and lets out another garbled yell. However, the flames inside her can never truly be extinguished, so while she pictures the fierce lioness inside her raising her gargantuan head and announcing her innermost opinions and feelings to the world, she is reduced to simply letting out a pained croak, and switching tabs back before her monitor. Can't remember, she reassures herself, can't think.

That was how she threw her life away.

But what can you do, when a familiar but opposing soul stalks you; looms behind your hunched figure with wistful, calculating eyes?

You sink. Down into the abyss of swirling nonchalance and silent screams. So, ever so slowly, his ghost sunk her. Like a majestic, capable galleon, bombed with soul and crushed into the ripping tides. Oppressed by the waves, that hurled salty foam upon the shore and violently tearing sediment and sand away from it just as he was torn from her. Yanking chunks off her sturdy exterior, one by one. Then seeping inside; the icy waves tauntingly letting out soft sloshing sounds under her shattered flesh.

And gradually, she began to drown. Crumbled into sea brine and bubbly fragments, she drowned. With a gargantuan scribble of flurried exchanges and unspoken words as her seizing weights, she drowned.

Every last bit of her drowned.


End file.
